


Reflections

by applecameron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His private word for the state is 'squirrelly'.  It's not the first time he's felt this way, nor likely the last, and God only knows what Eames is going to do about it, because Eames is far too insightful for Arthur's continued equilibrium.  He wants to know what Eames will do, and he doesn't, all at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

Arthur is tired. And annoyed. And jumpy. He woke up too many times in the past three nights to be anything else, once screaming, he's quite sure, he knows he woke Eames up, he feels like he sprained a vocal chord or something, and that many nights in a row make him numb and constantly on edge at the same time, like someone's going to come up to him any second that he needs to fight and would they just pounce already and stop fucking lurking just out of sight. Break the fucking tension. Please. 

His private word for the state is 'squirrelly'. It's not the first time he's felt this way, nor likely the last, and God only knows what Eames is going to do about it, because Eames is far too insightful for Arthur's continued equilibrium. He wants to know what Eames will do, and he doesn't, all at the same time. 

So he makes it out of bed and is partly dressed - slacks, undershirt, slippers and a dressing gown, because he likes his layers even in Italy, they're his armor against the world and that's just all there is to it - and is slumped in a chair on the balcony of his hotel with his eyes mostly shut but not so tuned out he can't hear everything Eames is doing, to wit, cleaning up after lunch and then settling into his own seat near Arthur, and cracking open a book. He looks at Eames sideways. Shoulders, short sleeves, slacks. Arms burnishing in the sun. Under other circumstances, he'd do more than just look. 

The confounding thing about Eames - all right, not the only confounding thing - is that he shrugs off being other people so blithely. "Really, darling." He said to Arthur one time. "They're just bodies." 

The man spends endless hours at his task - and it was ages before Arthur twigged to how much work Eames put into his forges, he was embarrassed to admit it to himself later. So much was invisible, so much conducted from under half-slitted eyes that never seemed to be paying attention, so much done in silence, in secret, based on observation and experience, not numbers and records that Arthur knows how to collect and touch - constructing walks, mannerisms, laughs. Essences. That he himself dismisses his forgeries so casually is … is… it's counter-intuitive, that's what it is. 

On occasion, Eames is proud of a particularly good forge, in much the same way he's proud of a particularly good counterfeit passport. "I amaze even myself, sometimes, darling." 

Arthur has worked with most of the other forgers in dreamshare, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that they're all a little bit crazy from wearing too many faces, too often, and the ordeal they undergo to do it in the first place, and they don't have a terribly long lifespan. Careerwise, and the other. 

And yet, Eames just shrugs off his form once the job is complete, springing forth from the brow of his creation like Athena from Zeus, and just as perfect as the goddess must have been, and then goes about his day, drinking coffee (or something else), smoking cigarettes, gambling, and confounding Arthur. 

What Eames doesn't do is this: he doesn't spend hours inspecting his own face after a job, like he needed to check it was there, like that forger used to, whatisname, that Arthur met in the Ukraine. Blond guy. Tall. Ivan something. Former Russian Army. Ivan something who ate his gun in the real world about a year ago. Whatever that is in dreamshare years. 

And Eames has been in the business almost as long as Cobb, so far as Arthur can tell, and Cobb's DOD work pretty much marked the start of dreamshare itself. 

It's just Eames. So Eames is this consummate con man, from head to toe, and apparently that's what keeps him sane. But there must be more to it. How could all the military and defense contractors making up dreamshare as they went along, turning soldiers into something else, someone else, do whatever it was they did to fracture identities into creatures that turned into _other people_ in dream, and - 

The answer, when it comes in a flash, is obvious, and simple. 

"You were never in the military, were you." 

"Wasn't I, love?" Eames doesn't even look up from his book, legs outstretched and clad in pale linen. 

They had planned to go to a museum that afternoon, but Eames demurred over lunch, saying he quite fancied an afternoon reading and maybe a quiet dinner later. Privately, Arthur was much relieved. He didn't feel like getting out of his chair, or dealing with people. Not when he's tired and unsettled like this and picking at mental scabs. Not when he's _squirrelly_. Not when there's a headache gathering behind his left eye, and he wants to go back to bed, but simultaneously can't stand the thought. 

He shuts his eyes, lids feeling gritty. "No. The American and Anglo defense departments built up forgers in the same way." He knows this. He's seen the literature. He's written some of it. He never passed the psych tests to qualify for forger training. Conditioning, might be the better word. In retrospect, it's a relief. Whatever it is that protects Eames' sanity, Arthur doesn't have it and he doesn't forge, isn't capable of losing his sense of self the way forgers do, and well, there you have it. So, why is the best forger in the world still sane? Not that he's complaining. It's just an itch now, and Arthur has to scratch. It's a good distraction. 

"I suppose you'd know, wouldn't you." Eames puts his finger in the book for a moment. It's Dante's Inferno. In Italian. 

Eames the erudite tends to leave Arthur hopelessly aroused and that knowledge is probably why the man is lounging next to him on the balcony reading Dante in the first place. He takes his mental pulse. Nope. Too tired. "You were never a soldier, Eames." 

Eames looks him up and down. "As you so clearly were, dear Arthur." 

"As I so clearly was, yes, thank you, Mister Eames." 

Eames finds his place in his book, and resumes reading. 

Arthur is silent for about a minute from his own chair and then snaps. "Fine. How did you learn to forge, then?" 

"Tut tut. Why should I answer your so-delightful questions." His face, turned up to the sun, is composed. The lines of his throat are beautiful. "If you won't answer mine?" 

"Maybe I will." He regrets the challenge the second it's left his mouth, and Eames sees it, sees his regret, the sudden burst of fear, that he doesn't want to answer questions about the military, about dreamshare, about whatever painful thing Eames will think of to ask him, to push him into admitting. 

Eames is not a man Arthur could ever really turn down, no matter how hard he tries. 

He squirms, impaled on a level gaze. 

"Ask." Eames tells him, finally. And he knows he's in for it. But he also really wants to know. 

"How did you learn to forge?" 

Eames looks at him for a bit and then shrugs. "I was always a lucid dreamer, pet. It just made sense. And you, Arthur, do you remember the hell your masters put you through to militarize your subconscious?" 

The question goes through him like a jolt, leaving Arthur looking at his hands, suddenly not wanting to make eye contact. "I'm sure you've read the reports." He says, finally. 

"Indeed. But that's not the same as hearing you answer, pet. Quid pro quo. I was always a lucid dreamer." Gently, "changing myself is just like changing any other aspect of a dream. I find it strange that other people can't do it." He smiles, not quite unkindly, but not all kindly, either. This is going to hurt. "And now, you." 

Arthur looks back at his hands. "No, I don't remember." 

"Oh, no, Arthur," and dear God, he's got Eames' undivided attention now, alarming prospect as that is, anywhere outside the bedroom. "That's not an answer. You want to know why I am what I am. I expect the same courtesy." 

He can't tell, even for Eames. Even if he wants to, which he sort of does. He doesn't know how to shape the words to explain certain things, the things that wake him up at night. It's like there's a block in his throat; he wants to dig into it with his fingers. Eames rises, book abandoned, and crouches by Arthur's chair. "Why is it that you came to your secret military program with an already militarized subconscious, long before anyone knew such things were possible?" He doesn't make eye contact, just touches one of Arthur's hands. His hand is warm. 

Arthur is suddenly surprised to find he is cold. So very cold, in the Florentine sun. So cold he is almost shaking with it. 

Eames says nothing for what feels like a long time. "Because someone used to come to you, didn't he." 

Arthur is sitting up now, eyes wide, enduring this like Eames had taken a scalpel to his chest, to his mind, and Eames is still only touching his hand. Leaning forward, as if doing so might help words come out, gravity dragging them down past the barrier of his lips. "Yes." Can't look at Eames. Can't turn his head. Can't bear it. 

"In the night." 

He blinks, twice, and now Eames is holding him. "Yes." 

"And sometimes it seemed like a dream." 

He's shaking very hard now, horrible truths vibrating in his bones. Eyes shut, gasping against Eames' shoulder. "Yes." 

"And you couldn't fight back." 

Arthur can't answer, he can't, he's not in Florence anymore, he's somewhere else, somewhen else. Someone is coming. 

"But you could in your dreams." 

He's hyperventilating now, going to pass out, he can feel the blood in his head, pushing him out of his own consciousness, there's no room left for him in his own skull. 

"And you never trusted what you saw, dreaming or waking." 

"Yes." Drawn up from his core, the resolute distrust that made him who he was. 

"All your precious military did was teach your subconscious to fire a gun." 

Arthur is on the floor of the balcony now, breathing long and shocky, shuddering. Eames holds him tightly. 

"It's all right, darling. I know you can't say it." 

Eames picks him up. 

* * *

In bed, Eames is undemanding, offering body heat and little else. 

After a long time of quiet breathing with Arthur tucked into the crooks of his body, "I was on the grift for years already when they caught me. It was join up, or prison." 

Arthur takes a long time to digest that. So long, he's almost asleep when he observes, "So both of us were what we were before our respective militaries found us." 

Eames tells his hair, breath caressing his ear. "Pity our poor copies, my love." 

Many hours later, when he's warm again, safe and secure in the circle of Eames' arms, and had thanked Eames in his own way for draining the pain in his mind, at least for now, making the room for him to be Arthur again. "So you _were_ in the military." 

Eames shuts him up by kissing him. "Hush, darling. Enough truth for one day." 


End file.
